


The Wait

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28957386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: Minas Ithil has fallen, and in the barrows beneath Cirith Ungol, Eltariel waits for Talion to rise from the dead.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	The Wait

When Eltariel arrives at the barrows beneath Cirith Ungol, Talion's body is already there. The semblance of sleep is upon him where he lies on the cold stone—his head at a slight incline, one hand draped across his stomach while the other rests palm-up at his side. The sword that had fallen from his grasp before the Nazgûl is returned, lying within his slack fingers as though carefully placed there in preparation for a funeral that will never come. Among the fallen warriors of Eregion, a place has been carved out for him and granted him a temporary share in their peace.

She wonders how long it took for him to fade from Minas Ithil; how long again it will take for him to wake. If he will in fact wake at all.

As the stone door rumbles shut behind her, Eltariel steps closer. Beside the ranger she kneels, rests a hand upon his breastplate and marvels that it's whole—polished and shining as though fresh from the smithy and not recently pierced by her blade. When she holds the back of her hand before his lips she senses no breath, nor feels the rushing of blood with the press of her fingertips to his throat, yet the pallor of his skin is not quite deathly pale.

A curious thing, the magic that keeps him here. Curiosity again moves her hand.

She touches his cheek, wondering how long before it will know warmth again, and then his jaw, fascinated by the stubble-scratch of his beard so unfamiliar to the elves. Her fingers wander to his brow and then stop short of touching his eyelids, imagining the colour of his eyes beneath them when not tainted by the Witch-king's curse. The thought occurs to her that she could open them and satisfy her curiosity, yet at the same time the notion seems perverse. Instead she grasps his hand, examines each calloused finger as if there might be evidence of where he once wore his accursed new ring (there is not) and then rests it gently once more upon his chest.

She watches that hand a few moments longer, waiting for a sign of movement; something to suggest the lifeless, deathless limbo in which he's caught is coming to an end. Still he hasn't drawn a breath.

What would happen, she wonders, if while here she were to drive her blade through his heart once more? Could she sit and watch him heal? Witness the wraith's magic play out before her eyes?

She quashes the thought before the urge to find out has chance to join it. Impermanent death may be for him, though painless she suspects it is not.

Turning to the sword at Talion's side, Eltariel runs a fingertip delicately along the outer edge and finds that unlike his armour, it lacks the feel of being forged anew. The realisation displeases her. Lifting the hilt carefully from his loose grasp, she searches the pouches at his waist for a whetstone and then goes to sit upon a large chunk of nearby rubble.

There she waits.


End file.
